


Kissing Fenris

by The_Real_Fenris



Series: Enchanter, Come to Me [1]
Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adamant Fortress, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Dragon Age: Inquisition Spoilers, Drunk Sex, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Skyhold, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-28 23:25:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 14,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3873838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Real_Fenris/pseuds/The_Real_Fenris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Pain... yes, he was familiar with that. Pain had driven him here to destroy someone, but he knew that he still had a choice. Hurt this man or kill him with pleasure – what was the difference?"</p><p>Hawke is dead, Fenris is out of control, and the Inquisitor thinks that Dorian could distract the elf from his pain. But Dorian isn't certain that becoming involved with that lunatic of an elf is a good idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Then He Was Screaming Inside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tensions at Adamant are running high, and Cullen has to step in.

Adamant was a fucking disaster.

They had managed to arrive in time to stop Warden-Commander Clarel from performing the ritual sacrifice. The Inquisitor had even convinced Clarel of Erimond’s deceit. Then, after more fighting, the Inquisitor had surged west across the battlements in pursuit of Clarel and the evil Venatori magister.

The Warden-Commander would have defeated Erimond, too, if the magister hadn’t summoned Corypheus’ dragon. Her body broken and bloody on the stone, Clarel’s final act had been to blast the dragon with a spell powerful enough to destroy a large section of the battlements.

The stone structure collapsed, sending the Inquisitor, Hawke, Alistair, Varric, Solas and Cassandra falling into the void.

Now the Grey Wardens and Cullen’s soldiers continued to strike down the demons that passed through the rift in the courtyard of the fortress. Waves of enemies would appear at random intervals which, at least, gave the warriors some respite. However, Cullen hated these moments of calm. They gave him too much time to fret over the Inquisitor’s fate. Without the Inquisitor, they couldn’t close the rift, which also meant that, as Commander of the Inquisition’s forces, everyone looked to him for guidance. But Cullen didn’t know what else to do but wait, and fight.

It was during one of these lulls in battle when Scout Harding, out of breath, came careening around the corner. “Commander! There’s some trouble. I think you’d better come quickly.”

Following Harding, Cullen quickly skirted the courtyard to where a small crowd had gathered at the opposite end. Cullen pushed his way to the middle, where he froze in shock. Dorian was sprawled across the ground, one hand placed gingerly against the side of his face, the other twisting around the magical staff beside him, as he glared up at Fenris, who stood over him, his right hand clenched into a fist.

Cullen’s voice boomed through the courtyard. “What’s going on here?”

All chatter died. Fenris’ head whipped around. His green eyes blazed with fury.

Dorian spoke first, sputtering with shock. “That mad elf attacked me!”

Fenris’ lips twisted in disgust. “This man is a Tevinter. His family keeps slaves!”

Any hope that Cullen might have had about Dorian keeping quiet about his family’s history of slave ownership was dashed in an instant. “So what if we do?” Dorian snapped. “Our slaves are well treated. We give them a chance at a better life than they would have had otherwise. What’s so terrible about that?”

Cullen could easily recognize the look of a man about to draw his sword. Moving quickly, he grabbed Fenris by the shoulder, forcing him back, and put himself between the ex-slave and the mage. “If you wish to harm him, you’ll have to go through me first.”

Fenris eyed him sharply, clearly considering it.

Cullen had seen Fenris in battle before, and knew how dangerous the elf was with a blade. _Maker’s balls._

Iron Bull’s voice cut through the crowd. “Hey, elf. Remember that the Vint is on our side. If you want to take out your frustrations on someone, I’d suggest you try the demons first.”

Fenris considered that, too. Then he jerked free of Cullen’s grasp, stepping back. “Your argument is logical, Qunari.” He turned back to Cullen with a glare. “A word of advice, Commander.” He jerked his head in Dorian’s direction. “This man is an abomination. You would be wise to not keep him by your side.”

Still sprawled on the ground, Dorian’s look was incredulous as Fenris stalked away. “Cullen, that lunatic just attacked me for no reason. Are you really going to let him get away with it?”

Cullen went over to Dorian, extending a hand to help him up. Almost grudgingly, Dorian accepted it. On his feet again, he angrily tugged his robes back into place. Across his left cheek, Fenris’ fist had left a savage red mark.

“Are you all right?” Cullen asked.

“No, of course I’m not all right!” Dorian snapped. “And to think that I actually expected you...”

Cullen frowned. “What exactly did you expect me to do, Dorian? Defend your honor?”

Dorian grimaced. Then he snapped again, his voice rising. “Perhaps I did! Though it seems that I was foolish to assume that the Inquisition would protect its own!”

Cullen sighed. “Look, Dorian. Tensions are running high. The men are tired. We’re all worried about the Inquisitor and the others. If she doesn’t return...”

Dorian pretended not to have noticed Cullen’s voice crack with emotion. He exhaled slowly, letting some of his anger slip away, and spoke quietly. “Yes. I know.”

Cullen took a deep breath. “Even so... I don’t think we could be even half as frightened as Fenris must have been when he saw Hawke fall. Whatever is happening in that elf’s head right now... it can’t be good.”

Dorian tilted his head, looking pensive. But before he could say anything, the rift in the center of the courtyard crackled to life, spawning more demons. Cullen drew his sword and Dorian raised his staff as they rushed towards the fight.

Dorian and Cullen had just reached the edge of the skirmish when the rift crackled again, and a figure darted out.

Cullen was flooded with relief as he recognized Inquisitor Evelyn Trevelyan.

As she skidded to a stop, more figures emerged from the rift: Cassandra, Solas, Varric, and finally, Grey Warden Alistair. Once they had cleared the rift, the Inquisitor raised her hand. The Anchor glowed to life, then flooded the room with divine power. In an instant, she incinerated all the remaining demons. In the next, she poured the Anchor’s green energy into the rift to seal it. The rift wavered, convulsed, and then vanished.

Silence fell. Then, after a moment, the men began applauding as some of them shouted with glee.

Only one person did not join in the revelry. Moving stiffly, Fenris stepped up to Varric. “Where’s Hawke?”

Fenris had never seen Varric look this despondent, not even when his brother had been consumed by madness. Dread turned the blood in Fenris’ veins to ice. _No. Not Hawke._ And then he was screaming inside as Varric spoke the impossible words.

“Fenris... there’s something I need to tell you...”

 


	2. Chats With the Inquisitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inquisitor interlude #1

A week after their return from Adamant, the Inquisitor visited Dorian in the library.

Dorian rather enjoyed his chats with the Inquisitor. Not everyone appreciated her cockiness, or her bossy attitude, or her bluntness, but Dorian liked a woman who kept her word, spoke her mind and didn’t care a fig about what anyone else thought. Also, she was still willing to flirt harmlessly and flatter him, even after learning of his preference for men.

There was no flirtatious banter today. Dorian had concerns about what had happened in Adamant. No one, since Corypheus, had physically walked through the Fade in a thousand years. And now Corypheus was an immortal god-monster Blight-bent on trying to destroy the world, with nothing but the Inquisition to stop him.

They talked about her trip to the Fade until Dorian was out of questions. Unfortunately, this conversation hadn’t revealed many answers.

Then the Inquisitor gave him a sidelong glance, then shifted the subject. “You’re friends with Varric, aren’t you?”

Dorian didn’t have too many friends in the Inquisition. Other than the Inquisitor herself. Though he did get along just fine with Varric and Cullen. “We play cards together sometimes.”

“How’s he holding up?”

Although Varric hadn’t spoken about it with him, it was obvious that the death of Hawke had hit him quite hard. “As well as to be expected, I suppose,” Dorian said. “Though – if I may make a suggestion? – perhaps you should speak to him about what happened yourself. I think it would mean a lot to him.”

The Inquisitor was quiet for a moment, mulling over the idea. “Will you be seeing him later?”

“Probably. He does have a habit of dropping by the Herald’s Rest in the evening.”

“Good, then tell him to meet me in my quarters tomorrow morning at ten o’clock for brunch.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow at her. “You know,” he said, lightly mocking, “you could always tell a servant to deliver your messages for you.”

The Inquisitor smirked. “I just did.”


	3. Melted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris drowns his sorrows in drink. And then follows Dorian back to his room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Borderline hate sex, which then turns into... something else.

Living without Hawke was unbearable. Excruciating. Impossible.

How many times had he thought about throwing himself down on the Blade of Mercy and ending his pain? Or tossing himself off the battlements? Yet Fenris lacked the courage to act upon these impulses. Instead, he curled into a ball on the bed in his room, inconsolable, and wept.

Lost in a never-ending sea of darkness and sorrow.

Drinking helped. In fact, for the past week, he’d been drunk most of the time. Unfortunately, he’d been prone to getting into fights when he was drunk, so now no one – not even the Chargers – was willing to drink with him anymore. Which is why he was drinking alone at the bar in the Herald’s Rest when Varric sat down beside him.

Varric flagged down the bartender. Ordered some ale. For a while they sat in companionable silence, drinking together. Then Varric spoke. “I miss him, too.”

A part of Fenris wanted to rage. Varric had no right trying to emphasize with him. The dwarf had no idea about the void into which Fenris had been so unexpectedly plunged. Hawke had only been Varric’s friend. For Fenris, Hawke had been more than just his friend. Hawke had been his lover. His partner. His guide in life. His reason for living. His... _everything._

Garrett Hawke. The man with fire in his hands, steel in his heart.

Yet another part of Fenris recognized Varric’s pain. He realized that he didn’t want to lash out and hurt the only friend he had left in the world. Softly, he said, “I know.”

Varric made a quiet noise of acknowledgment and they returned to drinking in silence.

It was better than drinking alone. Almost comforting. And he’d already drunk enough so that the alcohol had softened the edge of his pain, enough that he could pretend that everything, for the moment, was tolerable.

At least until the Tevinter mage entered the bar and took the empty seat next to Varric.

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” Dorian said, in that annoyingly chipper tone of his. “But I was instructed to give you a message from the Inquisitor. She humbly requests that you join her in her quarters tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.” He smiled before adding, “For brunch.”

Varric was amused by that. Nothing that the Inquisitor did could be called _humble._ “Brunch with the Inquisitor? It sounds like an offer I can’t refuse.”

“Excellent.” Dorian’s gaze slid surreptitiously across Fenris before returning to Varric. “Well, then. Now that my duty is done, I will leave you gentlemen to your evening.”

Varric wished him a good night, then Dorian slipped off the bar stool, and headed towards the door.

In the silence that ensued, Fenris felt his head ticking. _That man..._ When Varric had written to Hawke, Fenris had insisted on coming with him to Skyhold to aid the Inquisition. As Hawke’s shadow, he had met all of the Inquisitor’s inner circle. No one had paid him much attention, except for Dorian, who had been casually flirtatious. Which had been fine until Fenris discovered that the man was not only a mage, but came from a long line of magisters in the Tevinter Imperium. The very people who had enslaved him, tormented him, and scarred nearly every inch of his skin.

Ancient rage flowed deeply.

The desire to destroy – himself, or someone else. What was the difference?

Without knowing his own motivation, Fenris tossed back the rest of his drink, said good night to Varric, and followed Dorian out of the tavern.

Staying in the shadows, he trailed some distance behind the mage, across the courtyard, and then up the stairs into the main building. A turn into one of the side doors and then down a twisting corridor, until, at last, Dorian stopped before a door. Once he’d unlocked it, he turned back towards the seemingly empty corridor, and called out in Tevene. “Are you going to come in? Or would you prefer skulking in the shadows?”

Fenris remained in the shadows for a moment. Following the mage – it was a madness. But madness was preferable to pain. He stepped out of the shadows, padding towards Dorian, slow wolf steps.

The mage watched him, expression neutral, as Fenris closed the distance between them and then crossed the threshold.

Dorian closed the door, sealing them into his room. He wasn’t entirely convinced that letting Fenris into his room was a wise decision, but curiosity was stronger than caution. Also, he had a fair number of defensive spells at his fingertips should the elf attack him again.

Fenris turned, meeting Dorian’s gaze with eyes that were seawater green. Such pretty eyes. And he had such beautiful, long hair, white as snow. Dorian considered the rest of him: he was wiry but muscular, moved with the sexual grace of a panther, and was – in Dorian’s opinion – wickedly attractive. A shame, really, that he was completely off his rocker.

“Is there something you wanted... Fenris?”

There was a flicker in the elf’s expression. Two things became obvious to Dorian. One, Fenris was really drunk and, two, he was steeling his nerve. “Yes. There is.”

Before Dorian could speak again, Fenris surged forward, grabbed Dorian by the shoulders and shoved him back, hard enough to rattle the door.

His spell was at the ready – just enough magic to blast one skinny elf halfway across the room – but then Fenris’ hands slid purposefully down Dorian’s chest, skimming his sides, and then up under his shirt.

Dorian inhaled sharply as Fenris’ hands began to move over his skin. A seduction was the last thing he’d expected. It took him a moment to recover from his surprise enough to react.

Meanwhile, Fenris’ hands moved up, then he was yanking Dorian’s shirt off, discarding it carelessly on the floor before returning his hands to Dorian’s chest.

Bedding this very drunk, lunatic of an elf was a terrible idea. And yet... being touched by him felt good. Dorian would have been ashamed to admit exactly how long it had been since he’d last been with a man. Too long.

Acting on impulse, Dorian slid one hand to the nape of Fenris’ neck, pulling the elf towards him.

The moment before their lips met, Fenris turned his face to the side. “No. No kissing.”

Swallowing his disappointment, Dorian released his hold on Fenris’ neck, then reached down to slip his hands under the back of Fenris’ shirt. As he pushed up the fabric, he could feel the strange latticework of scars on the elf’s skin.

Like his chin and neck, his upper body was covered in mystical patterns of pale, bluish-white scars. Fenris shivered when Dorian began tracing the markings with his fingertips, then made small noises of pleasure as Dorian’s fingers swirled around his nipples.

Fierce seawater green eyes met hazel. Hands seized Dorian by the belt, half dragging, half pushing him until they reached the bed. Another shove sent Dorian sprawling down to the bed.

Fenris took off his pants. He wore nothing beneath them.

Dorian was interested to note a few things about Fenris’ prick. First, it was the only part of his body, along with his balls, that was free of scars. Like his unblemished skin, it was the color of coffee milk, a shade lighter than Dorian’s own. Second, it was already hard, which surprised him. Finally, elves were not famous for being well-endowed, but what Fenris possessed between his legs easily debunked that myth.

Naked, Fenris climbed onto the bed to help Dorian undress. Boots thunked to the floor, followed by pants and small clothes. Then Fenris climbed over him, positioning himself so that their cocks were touching. Taking them both in hand, Fenris began to masturbate Dorian’s cock along with his own.

Dorian was vaguely relieved to note that his staff was not smaller than Fenris’. Well, not _much_ smaller, at any rate.

The elf’s touch was determined, all business. Dorian allowed himself to indulge in the pleasurable sensation of that rough hand working him for a moment, then sat up and began kissing Fenris’s ear and neck – which was allowed – while his hands explored Fenris’ body.

Fenris’ breathing quickened. As Dorian’s teeth sank into his earlobe, he moaned softly, letting his head lilt back as he steadied himself by placing his other hand on Dorian’s shoulder. As Dorian bit a trail from his ear to his collarbone, Fenris’ fingers dug deep into Dorian’s shoulder.

As suddenly as he’d started, Fenris stopped. His eyes full of hunger, he took hold of Dorian, roughly maneuvering him so that mage was on his hands and knees.

Fenris knelt behind him. Dorian felt Fenris’s hands as they settled on his hips.

The answer was obvious, but Dorian asked the question, anyway. “What are you doing?”

Fenris growled. “Just shut up and let me fuck you, mage.”

Dorian asked himself if he wanted this. Oh, he was still certain that it was a terrible idea, but the answer was still a resounding _Maker yes._

“Very well,” he said lightly, reaching over to the bedside table to retrieve a container. “But do make generous use of this. You may think I’m strange, but I don’t fancy pain.”

Fenris became still, except for his fingers that curled harder into Dorian’s hips. _Pain..._ yes, he was familiar with that. Pain had driven him here to destroy someone, but he knew that he still had a choice. Hurt this man or kill him with pleasure – what was the difference?

He plucked the small bottle out of Dorian’s hand.

A moment later, Dorian inhaled sharply as Fenris pushed one determined and well-oiled finger inside him. He exhaled sharply as Fenris wormed a second finger in, then twisted them around inside, seeking... and then Dorian forgot to breathe as Fenris found that sensitive spot. He began to tremble as Fenris’ fingers meticulously slid back and forth, causing waves of almost unbearable pleasure to wash over him.

By the time Fenris withdrew his fingers, Dorian was scarcely aware of anything beyond the throbbing hum that his body had become, consumed by need.

Fenris’ left hand fell upon Dorian’s hip again, as his right hand guided his cock to Dorian’s hole.

Dorian’s breath hitched as Fenris slowly sank into him.

Once he was all the way in, Fenris ceased to move. Then he slipped one hand down around Dorian’s hip, wrapping his hand around Dorian’s shaft, moving his hand in long, sensuous strokes.

He’d oiled his fist.

After a few minutes of this delicious torment, Fenris began to thrust.

Whatever Dorian had expected, it wasn’t this steady, snail-slow rhythm of Fenris’ cock moving inside him. Coupled with the sensation of his own prick gliding in and out of Fenris’ hot, slick fist, he was nearly overwhelmed by the pleasure. _Maker... this elfin madman knows what he’s doing._ It felt so good that he didn’t even care about the strange little strangled noises he was making deep in his throat.

Fenris’ left hand tightened its grip on Dorian’s hip. His voice was husky. “Tell me when you’re close.”

All Dorian could manage was a breathless sound of agreement.

Fenris, never faltering, continued to stroke and fuck him in that tortuously slow manner. It was almost impossibly wonderful. Dorian felt the familiar tension building deep in his body, sweeping him away to his peak.

“Fenris...” he panted. “I’m about to... uh...”

Fenris let go of all restraint. He pounded into Dorian with hard, aggressive – almost angry – stabs of his cock. As he did so, Dorian came harder and louder than an archdemon.

Fenris growled softly as he came.

Seconds ticked by. When Fenris withdrew, Dorian collapsed face down on the bed. For a moment his mind was completely blank, then, right before he fell asleep, he had one single thought:

_I’m melted. That lunatic elf just melted me._


	4. Unspoken Questions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris wakes up the morning after, with regrets.

Fenris woke the next morning, completely disoriented, with arguably the worst hangover he’d had in his long history of drinking. The light stung his eyes, his tongue felt three sizes too big for his mouth, and just moving his head plunged him into a new level of the Blight.

It took him a moment to realize that he didn’t know where he was. It took him another moment to realize that he was lying naked in bed with another man. And, finally, it took him a moment to recognize who that man was.

Fenris never blacked out when he drank, so he did remember the activities of the evening before with relative clarity. It just took time to open the gate that let the memories flood back in.

 _Oh, no. What the fuck have I done?_ It had only been a week since he’d lost Hawke – _one week!_ – before Fenris had shamelessly stumbled into another man’s bed. And, of all the men he could have chosen to fuck, he’d chosen the one man who represented everything he hated, Dorian Pavus.

Fenris’ head was a jumble of random thoughts.

He was despicable.

He would never touch this man again.

He should have just thrown himself off the battlements.

He needed a drink.

_Fucking him felt better than I’d imagined it would._

Oh Maker, he was going to be sick.

A hand fell lightly upon his shoulder. Glancing behind him, he saw Dorian watching him with a neutral expression. The mage didn’t say anything, but in his eyes, Fenris could see the unspoken questions. Questions which Fenris had no desire to answer.

He roughly shrugged Dorian’s hand off his shoulder, then stood up to retrieve his clothes from the floor. Once dressed, Fenris slunk to the door, only glancing once more at the mage, who still wore the same neutral expression.

Except now, some of the questions had vanished from his eyes.

Casting down his gaze, Fenris closed the door behind him.


	5. Her Commander's Report

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inquisitor interlude #2

Evelyn Trevelyan stood in the War Room, listening to her Commander’s report. There was the usual nonsense about Venatori activity, recent uprisings amongst the rebel mages, bandits controlling the trade routes, troop supplies disappearing before they reached their destination, new sightings of darkspawn...

After a while, the Inquisitor tuned Cullen out. Everybody had a problem, and every single one of them expected the Inquisitor to fix it. As if she didn’t have better things to do with her time – such as saving the whole fucking world from its imminent destruction.

Or undressing Cullen with her eyes. After all, he was young, handsome, and strapping.

She tuned back in to catch him say, “– recently brought a small matter to my attention. It seems that a certain individual has been offering sexual favors to the soldiers.”

Clearly, if Cullen had decided this was worthy of her attention, it meant that it was another problem for her to fix. Though it wasn’t uncommon for whores to follow armies, so the Inquisitor wasn’t entirely certain of what the problem could _be._ “Who is she?”

Cullen’s expression bordered on bemusement, but there was also genuine puzzlement. “He, actually... Fenris.”

 _Fenris._ That gave the Inquisitor pause. _How... interesting._

“Inquisitor?”

It had been two weeks since their return from Adamant. From talking with Varric, she knew that the elf had not taken Hawke’s death well. Which, evidently, was _the_ massive understatement of all massive understatements. “Cullen, you knew Fenris before, right?”

“In Kirkwall, yes.”

“What can you tell me about his relationship with Hawke?”

Cullen paused, looking thoughtful. “Well, they were very close. Quite a strong bond.” Cullen paused again, thinking. “It was obvious to anyone who knew them that Fenris was fiercely – almost blindly – loyal to Hawke. He did whatever Hawke commanded, without question.” Once again, Cullen became silent. Then he added, “You know, I have to admit that I always wondered if Fenris had ever truly freed himself from his past as a slave.”

For a soldier, Cullen was quite perceptive. The Inquisitor thought about Fenris. Now that his lover and master Hawke was dead, Fenris was off his leash, on a path of self-destructive drinking and picking fights – according to Varric – and now – according to Cullen – sexual misconduct.

“Inquisitor?” Cullen prompted. “What would you like done with Fenris?”

The Inquisitor continued to think. What Fenris needed now was a new master. And Evelyn Trevelyan had no problem with holding the leash. She smiled at Cullen. “Commander, you’re going to give him a choice...”


	6. How You'd Look in Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inquisitor interlude #3

As Fenris strode angrily through Skyhold, people moved quickly out of his path.

Once in the Great Hall, he stopped to bark at one of the servants. “Where are the Inquisitor’s quarters?”

The nervous boy lifted a hand, pointing towards a door at the other end of the hall.

Fenris didn’t knock. He banged the door open...

...only to find a long staircase winding up. Which led to another door. And then more stairs...

...and then he was on the landing.

Seated at her desk, the Inquisitor turned in her chair. Her eyes swept over him briefly, and then she smiled.

Her smile was... smug.

Three days ago, Cullen had come to him with a message from the Inquisitor. Although the ex-Templar had worded it politely, the message boiled down to this: _Join the Inquisition or get out._ And that Fenris was to give his answer to the Inquisitor, in person, in her quarters, in three days time.

On the first day, Fenris had simmered in anger. _The nerve of that woman._ He’d only come to Skyhold because Varric had asked Hawke for help. Neither one of them had entertained any notion of becoming soldiers of the Inquisition. And now, Hawke was dead. Fenris had no intention of sacrificing himself to a cause. He would leave Skyhold.

Uncertainty set in on the second day. If he left Skyhold, he didn’t know where he would go. Hawke had been his purpose. It occurred to Fenris that he’d been following Hawke’s lead for so long, that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d made a decision for himself. Even when he and Hawke had gone on a spree killing Tevinter slavers, it had been at Hawke’s suggestion. But still, there was no way he was going to let that woman tell him what to do.

By the third day, Fenris realized that he had no other options. He was a sword for hire, nothing more. That woman wanted his sword, and he knew that the Inquisition would pay handsomely for it. And, after all, Varric, his only friend in the world, was here. Resigned, he prepared for the meeting with the Inquisitor.

“You wanted my answer,” Fenris growled. “Well, I’ve come to give it.”

The Inquisitor continued to smile smugly as she considered him. He was dressed in his armor of form-fitting black and tarnished metal, his deadly blade slung across his back, and, interestingly, he’d cut his milk-pale hair short enough that it exposed the back of his neck. By this, his intentions were clear. Still, she wanted to hear him say it. “Go ahead.”

“I will offer my sword to the Inquisition.”

The Inquisitor nodded. Then she lifted her fingers to her chin, studying him for a long moment. _What to do with him...?_ She considered the possibilities. _Of course, he could be quite useful if we brought him with us to the Winter Palace..._ “Hmm.”

Fenris narrowed his eyes. “What?”

The Inquisitor smiled again. “Just wondering how you’d look in red.”


	7. The Winter Palace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian is enjoying the party at the Winter Palace, but then he sees trouble.

Dorian had rather enjoyed the intrigue at the Winter Palace. There had been gossip galore, complex political machinations, a thwarted assassination attempt on Empress Celine’s life, and the ham tasted succinctly of despair. He’d even started feeling homesick because it was so much like a social gathering in Tevinter – except with less murder.

Therefore, Dorian wasn’t displeased when the Inquisitor announced that the Empress had extended them an invitation to stay the night. After all, Skyhold was so far away, and it was already so late, and the peace talks had already been delayed... Well, he hadn’t been displeased until it was revealed that they were to be given three rooms in the guest wing, and that they would be sharing as follows: Cassandra with the Inquisitor, Leliana with Josephine, and, because Cullen was content to spend the night in the barracks with his soldiers, this left Dorian to share a room with Fenris.

It had been nearly three weeks since Fenris had followed him back to his room. Dorian had been avoiding Fenris since that night – despite whatever fun they’d had, the elf was insane. He was glad that Fenris had not sought him out again.

Well, _mostly_ glad. At least until he saw Fenris again tonight, dressed, like the rest of them, in the Inquisition’s formal attire of black pants and elaborately-buttoned red jacket, and was reminded of how wickedly attractive the elf was. Even though, to Dorian’s dismay, he’d cut off almost all of his beautiful white-as-snow hair. 

The expression on Fenris’ face at the Inquisitor’s announcement revealed that he was less than happy with the sleeping arrangements, but he remained silent. Unlike Cassandra, who complained bitterly about the Orlesian court and its game.

The Inquisitor clapped a hand down on Cassandra’s shoulder. “Go have a drink, Penteghast,” she ordered. “Or go to bed early. The room’s all yours, at least until they finish these damn peace talks.”

They went their separate ways. Some of them did decide to retire for the night. Dorian opted to remain at the party, which was now in full swing. He had another drink, made some conversation, and even danced with the Inquisitor. He would have preferred to dance with a handsome young nobleman, but the Inquisitor was quite light on her feet, and dancing with her was so delightful that he forgot, briefly, about the world’s imminent destruction.

It was shortly after their dance, while Dorian was chatting with the Duchess of Gisard, that he noticed Fenris in the crowd.

He wouldn’t have taken the elf for a lover of parties. Curious, he watched Fenris out of the corner of his eye. He stood near the door, a drink in his hand. As Dorian looked at him, he couldn’t help but notice the exchange of glances between Fenris and a small group of ostentatiously dressed noblemen standing a few feet away. Then Fenris tossed back his drink, set his empty glass down on the tray of a passing waiter, and headed out of the ballroom. The noblemen jostled each other with their elbows, then followed him out.

Dorian recognized trouble when he saw it. Since arriving at the Winter Palace, they’d drawn all sorts of disapproval for having an elf in their ranks. As far as most of the world was concerned, elves were either servants or slaves, nothing more. So it was not surprising that some young, drunk, foolish noble boys would want to put an elf back in his place.

Fenris was unarmed. And outnumbered. Silently cursing his own sense of decency, Dorian quickly made his excuses to the Duchess and headed out of the ballroom.

He’d lost sight of them, so he had been prowling the grounds of the Palace for quite some time before he stumbled across them in the garden.

It wasn’t exactly the scene he’d expected to find. Three noblemen, their faces hidden by masks, stood in a semi-circle before a fountain, watching with rapt attention as Fenris, on his knees, was busy pleasuring the fourth man with his mouth.

Dorian froze, uncertain.

A moment passed, and then one of the men became aware of his presence. The masks prevented him from seeing any of their expressions, but the voice was rough, annoyed at the disturbance. “Move along, stranger. This doesn’t concern you.”

Rankled, Dorian lifted his chin, but he responded with a light tone of voice. “Seeing that this is one of my companions, then I’d say it does concern me.”

At the sound of his voice, Fenris stiffened briefly, but did not stop.

The second man turned, studying Dorian. “He’s Inquisition, too.”

The third laughed, then snide, said, “I guess the Inquisition isn’t too picky about who they let join if they accept filthy elves.”

Fenris’ head continued to bob up and down, as though he hadn’t heard the insult. Or as if he didn’t care.

Dorian wondered if the situation could get any more offensive when the one at the receiving end of Fenris’ attentions grinned salaciously below his half-mask. “Perhaps you’d like to join the party?” he said. “This knife-ear’s appetite is insatiable.”

The others laughed.

Dorian found the whole situation sad. And sickening. They’d only begun, and he did not doubt for a moment that this was going to end in nothing less than a full-blown orgy. But it was clear that no one was forcing Fenris to do this. Which meant that it wasn’t Dorian’s business.

Dorian declined, and withdrew from the garden.

 


	8. A Distraction From His Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inquisitor interlude #4.

Dorian had not been back in the ballroom long before the Inquisitor appeared and shoved a mystery drink into his hand.

“Dorian,” she demanded. “Spill it.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

Evelyn sighed, then grabbed Dorian by the elbow, leading him out through the nearest door, onto an empty balcony. Leaning against the railing, she peered up at him. “It’s obvious by the look on your face that something’s wrong.”

Dorian sipped the drink. Whatever it was, it was strong. “It’s Fenris,” Dorian admitted. “He...”

The Inquisitor waited a moment for Dorian to finish his sentence. When he didn’t, she sighed again. “Oh. Don’t tell me. He’s either fighting someone or fucking them.”

Shock rooted Dorian to the spot. Then he quickly slugged back half of whatever was in that glass, trying to absorb what that meant. “Not the former...” he managed to say. Then, “And, really, Eve, is _that_ what he’s been doing?”

The Inquisitor shrugged. “If what Cullen tells me is true... there isn’t a half-gay soldier left who hasn’t had a taste of wolf flesh.”

He’d had no idea that... that... _really_? He cleared his throat, then said lightly, “Well. And here I thought _I_ was promiscuous.”

The Inquisitor didn’t smile at his joke. “He’s ruined his reputation,” she said. “Not that I personally care if he blows every male in Skyhold, but there is some concern amongst the advisers that he’s damaging the reputation of the Inquisition.” She paused, giving Dorian a cutting look. “It would be better if he were just warming your bed.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow again. “My bed?”

Her lips curled up in a knowing smile. “Come on, Dorian. He’s exactly your type: waif-like and pretty.”

That much was true. Although Dorian didn’t want to admit that he’d already had sex with Fenris. “Indeed,” he murmured. “But, in case you’ve forgotten, Fenris hates Tevinter mages.”

“It isn’t personal,” she said. “He just hates you on principal.”

“Oh,” Dorian said with his usual level of snark, “it sounds so much better when you put it that way.”

The Inquisitor stared out at the night landscape, blackness broken by the firefly lights of Val Royeaux in the distance, under a sky blotted with stars. Then she spoke quietly. “Someone ought to give that elf what he needs.”

Her tone was so uncharacteristically serious, that it took Dorian a moment to find his voice. Equally serious, he asked, “And what is it that you think he needs?”

The Inquisitor turned to him. “Isn’t it obvious?” she asked. “A distraction from his pain.”

Before Dorian could even formulate a response, they were approached by three ladies-in-waiting.

“Oh, Inquisitor–”

“– the Empress wishes –”

“– to speak to you now.”

The Inquisitor bowed graciously. “Yes, I will be there momentarily.”

Skirts swept across the floor as the ladies swished away.

The Inquisitor rolled her eyes, muttering under her breath. “I should have listened to Leliana and sided with the assassin.”

Dorian smiled wryly, and responded with snark. “Be a dear, Eve, and try not to murder anyone during the peace negotiations, all right?”


	9. Honey Dripping in Winter Slow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian makes Fenris an offer.

It was far past midnight when Fenris finally made his way through the guest wing and found his room.

If he were lucky, the mage would still be at the party, so he could undress and get into bed alone. Or – almost as good – the mage would be asleep in his own bed. Withdrawing the key from his pocket, he quietly opened the door.

Tonight was not his lucky night. A fire in the hearth and two lamps burned, illuminating the opulent room. As Fenris stepped in, Dorian rose from the armchair where he’d been sitting next to the fire, snapping shut the book he’d been reading and setting it on the mantle.

Dorian stepped forward, then stopped, resting a hand on the back of his chair. “What was that, earlier, in the garden?”

Fenris glared at him. “That’s none of your business, mage.”

Dorian’s expression darkened, his tone harsh with disapproval. “Do you actually enjoy being degraded like that?”

“Still none of your damn business.”

Dorian’s nostrils flared. When he spoke again, this time his tone was utterly cold and scathing. “You know, I do question how much you loved the Champion since you choose to honor his memory by sucking the cock of every soldier or noble willing to open his pants.”

Rage flooded through Fenris, spiking his blood, lurching his heart. With a guttural cry, he flew across the room, seized Dorian’s shirt in his fists, and slammed Dorian against the wall. He pinned Dorian there by pressing his arm against the Tevinter’s throat, shouting in his face. “Shut up! You know nothing about Hawke!”

Dorian stared back into those fierce eyes, silent, unflinching, and equally fierce.

 _This fucking man..._ “How dare you?!”

Dorian continued to meet his gaze, silent.

Fenris muttered icily, “You have no idea how much I hate you.”

Still no response beyond Dorian’s steady _don’t-fuck-with-me_ stare.

Fenris jerked him forward, then pushed back, as if he could rattle the words out of Dorian’s throat. _“Vishante kaffas...”_ he growled in exasperation. “Say something!”

Dorian closed his eyes briefly. He thought about what the Inquisitor had said about Fenris. He thought about pain. He thought about how the elf wasn’t the only one who could use a distraction. When he opened his eyes again, they had lost their fierceness, but possessed the resignation of a decision made.

When he spoke, he was perfectly calm, his tone reasonable. “Might I suggest that you stop whoring around and just come to me whenever you need sex?” he asked. “Less risk of diseases that way, not to mention less damaging to your reputation.”

The pressure of Fenris’ arm against his throat eased as Fenris stared at him with an expression of genuine shock. Then his eyes narrowed. “But I don’t even like you.”

“You don’t have to like me to use me.”

Fenris’ eyes roamed Dorian’s face, cold and seeking. “And you’d really be fine with that?”

“You know how things are in Tevinter,” Dorian said mildly. “I assure you I’m accustomed to being used.”

The idea of using the Tevinter mage as his sexual plaything was, for Fenris, equal measures appealing and disturbing. Since he’d fucked the mage, he’d had at least a dozen different escapades, yet – though it sickened him to admit it – none of them had been half as satisfying.

He was pretty sure that the gods were laughing at him, if not mocking him outright.

_This man..._

Madness overtook him – that was the only possible explanation for why Fenris’ hands were now trailing down Dorian’s chest, gathering the hem of his shirt to lift it off. Following his initiative, Dorian reached up and began unbuttoning Fenris’ jacket.

Shirts off, Dorian trailed his fingers across Fenris’ chest, following the esoteric patterns.

It had taken months of Hawke’s patient persistence to finally break Fenris of his aversion to being touched. Now it didn’t even bother him when someone touched his scars. Though the scars themselves lacked sensation, as Dorian traced them, his fingers also brushed over the skin surrounding them, which felt good. So good that Fenris remained still, without reciprocating, just savoring the pleasurable feeling of the mage’s fingers mapping out his skin.

Dorian’s hand skimmed down Fenris’ abdomen. When he arrived at Fenris’ pants, he unlaced them, then slid his hand inside.

Fenris’ breathing hitched as Dorian wrapped his long fingers around his semi-erect cock. As Dorian stroked it to life, Fenris sighed against Dorian’s neck.

Still stroking, Dorian leaned closer, murmuring seductively in Fenris’ ear. “Tell me what you want.”

Dorian’s hot breath, despite the hot room, made him shiver. “Did you bring that oil?”

Dorian’s hand slowed, fingers now performing a teasing dance. He almost hadn’t brought it, but hope always springs eternal – after all, an Orlesian ball was probably the best place in all of Thedas to hook up with a handsome, young nobleman who shared his tastes. Still, he hesitated to reply, as he was enjoying himself. The elf’s prick was silky smooth, hot and hard, and its heft somehow felt right in Dorian’s hand.

Then again, it had felt marvelous in his ass.

“In my pack,” he said. “Shall I fetch it now?”

Fenris nodded. Releasing him, Dorian went to retrieve it. When he turned around again, Fenris was standing against the wall, completely naked. _Maker,_ he was sexy. And the short hair _did_ give him an edgier and more masculine appearance, so Dorian silently forgave him for cutting it all off.

Fenris took the container and set it within reach, before sinking down to his knees on the carpet and unlacing Dorian’s pants.

Dorian had to lean a hand on the wall to keep his balance as Fenris finished undressing him. _Why is taking pants off always so awkward?_ Dorian wondered. Then he promptly forgot all about it as Fenris’ fingers curled around his hips, and he leaned forward to take Dorian in his mouth.

Dorian gasped as Fenris’ tongue swirled leisurely around the tip of his cock. Fenris gradually swallowed more and more of him until Dorian was throat deep. Then he started to suck, lightly at first. but gradually increasing in strength, as he moved up and down. Dorian had heard of men – and women – who were capable of performing this trick, but he’d never met one. He was now convinced that any envy he’d felt earlier upon watching Fenris suck some other man’s cock was completely justified. And he wondered just how, exactly, Fenris had become such an expert at sex.

Without losing his momentum, or missing a stroke, Fenris deftly guided Dorian a step back so the mage was against the wall, then reached over for the tin of oil. And then, still sucking, Fenris pushed a finger in.

An unusual thing happened – at Fenris’ touch, Dorian’s body, hungry for it, opened up. Without resistance, Fenris’ finger slid right in. _Maker_ , how badly Dorian wanted it. A moment later, Fenris was easily sliding two oiled fingers in and out of him.

Almost experimentally, Fenris introduced a third.

 _Maker,_ he was already ready. He wanted it so badly that his balls and prick ached. He wanted to beg the elf to fuck him, but everything that Fenris was doing to him was so overwhelming that the experience had robbed him of speech.

“Ah... hah... Fen...”

Fortunately, Fenris understood what he wanted. In a moment, Dorian was bracing himself against the wall as Fenris, on his feet behind Dorian, was penetrating him slowly.

Again Fenris paused once he was all the way in, but this time Dorian could hear his breath. Ragged.

Then Fenris began to move.

Slow. Honey dripping in winter slow. Racing tortoises over rocky terrain slow. Watching the grass grow slow. Torturous, setting nerves on fire slow.

It was too much. Dorian longed for a release, but for a release he needed _more._ “Ah... hah... Fen... please...”

Fenris ignored his pleas, continuing to thrust in that slow, but slowly building, steady rhythm, then leaned forward, pressing his chest against Dorian’s back.

Dorian gasped as Fenris’ lips and tongue moved over his neck, kissing and licking, and then an animal noise escaped him as Fenris’ teeth sank into his shoulder.

 _More... just a little more._ “Hah... Fen...”

Fenris’ breath rolled over Dorian’s neck, his voice a soft, deep purr. “You’re close, aren’t you?” he murmured, already reaching around and taking Dorian’s cock in hand.

He’d oiled his fist again. _Great fucking Maker._

He pumped Dorian’s cock in time with his thrusts. Slow. Steady. Once. Twice. Thrice.

 _Maker... so close..._ “Fen...”

Fenris let go, hammering into Dorian fast and hard.

World obliterated. Body electrified. Mind blank. Dorian’s reality shattered as he came so hard that he nearly lost consciousness. Vision dim, and lost in ecstasy, he was only vaguely aware that he was mewling as Fenris’ hand milked out the last threads of his seed, followed by the sound of Fenris’ labored breath as his cock throbbed his own release deep in Dorian’s body.

On the mantle, the tick of a clock filled the space where Dorian’s mind used to be.

When Fenris withdrew, Dorian slid down the wall to the floor. His legs had refused to function as proper limbs.

_Oh gods. That lunatic elf just broke me._


	10. Wicked Grace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inquisitor interlude #5.

Dorian and the Inquisitor sat in Varric’s room, drinking the dwarf’s cheap liquor and playing Wicked Grace.

Varric, who was not a fool, was letting the Inquisitor win.

Dorian considered his hand. Total and utter crap, so he couldn’t have won this round even if he wanted to. “So,” he trilled, “Morrigan thinks that Corypheus is after this Eluvian in the Arbor Wilds.”

The Inquisitor scowled at her cards. “I don’t want to talk about Inquisition business,” she said. “That’s why I agreed to play this game. Gossip only, or shut your hole.”

“My, you _are_ charming,” Dorian teased. “Gossip, eh? Well, as a matter of fact I _have_ heard a rumor recently. I heard that you have become romantically involved with the Commander.”

“Really?” the Inquisitor drawled with a sly grin. “I heard that _you_ were romantically involved with Fenris.”

“Ah,” Dorian said. He supposed it was then safe to assume that meant that there was no more talk about Fenris pleasuring the Inquisition’s army. “I’m not sure that ‘romantically’ is the most accurate term for it. We mostly just use each other for sex.”

Varric fidgeted with the cards in his hand. “And I’m not sure I’m very comfortable with this conversation anymore.”

The Inquisitor glanced curiously at Varric, shrugged, and then picked up her glass. “Well,” she said darkly, “the world is probably going to end soon, so nothing we say or do really matters.”

With a flick of her wrist, the Inquisitor tossed back her drink.


	11. The Opportunity to Use Tevene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris talks to Dorian about his past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing really explicit here, but there is the suggestion of non-con in Fenris' past as a slave.

In the late night hour, Fenris and Dorian knelt in front of each other on the mage’s bed, shirts off and hands moving in each other’s open pants.

They were close, foreheads nearly touching, their breath mingling. As usual, Fenris’ breath smelled of wine. Warm, misty, familiar. They had applied Dorian’s special oil, so each of them had one hand gliding over the other’s cock. Fenris’ other hand rested on Dorian’s shoulder, lightly squeezing, whereas Dorian’s free hand lay on Fenris’ thigh, which was hard, the muscle taut.

Fenris’ breath was coming faster now, colored by sound. Which, Dorian knew, meant that the elf was close to an orgasm. Pleased by the idea that the elf would come first this time, Dorian grasped him a little more tightly in his fist and began to stroke him faster.

A sigh of pleasure escaped Fenris. Yes, Dorian was certain he was going to outlast him this time, but then Fenris slipped his free hand down, weaseling it into Dorian’s pants.

He felt Fenris’ hand cup his balls, rolling them gently, before his fingers pressed lightly down on that bit of skin between his balls and his ass, tracing invisible circles.

Dorian closed his eyes, relishing the feel of Fenris’ hands on him. Hands everywhere, touching all of his sensitive areas. Unable to resist, Dorian was overcome by the pleasure, his orgasm swift and strong.

Returning to his senses, he realized that his own hand had ceased its movement. Determined, Dorian increased his efforts to pleasure the elf. As his hand continued to delve into Fenris’ pants, Dorian leaned forward, running his tongue down the length of Fenris’ neck.

With a soft groan, Fenris’ body stiffened, back arching, as he came in Dorian’s hand.

After, Fenris dropped down to the bed, not opening his eyes even when Dorian used the sheet to wipe off the seed that had spilled on the elf’s abdomen.

As he sat beside Fenris, Dorian considered him. Since that night at the Winter Palace, Fenris had been coming to him on a regular basis. During these nocturnal visits, they would have sex, then Fenris would usually leave, although he’d spent the night in Dorian’s room twice. There had been no cuddling either time, as Fenris hadn’t wanted that sort of intimacy.

Actually, it was evident that Fenris wanted no form of intimacy at all beyond the sex itself. Case in point: they never talked, which meant that Dorian still knew little about him, other than what he’d gleaned from casual conversations with Varric. Which amounted to little beyond the fact that Fenris had spent his years in Tevinter as a slave, and that he’d been in love with and fought alongside the Champion of Kirkwall. And, from his own experience, that the elf was pretty and had some serious skills in the bedroom.

He thought that it was a shame they didn’t talk more often. Other than Krem, Fenris was the only person at Skyhold who spoke his language. Not that Dorian wasn’t perfectly fluent in the King’s Tongue, but he always appreciated having the opportunity to use Tevene. Plus, Fenris had such a beautiful voice, deep and lush.

As he sat there thinking, Dorian’s fingers, as though magically drawn to Fenris’ markings, began to trace them.

Fenris opened his eyes. In his gaze, a warning. Dorian continued to look down at him, but reluctantly withdrew his hand. “Fenris?”

Fenris studied Dorian’s serious expression for a moment. Once again, there were questions in his eyes. “What is it, mage?”

“Nothing really,” Dorian said. “I was just wondering...”

Already regretting it, Fenris prompted him. “If you have something to say, then just say it.”

“If you don’t mind my asking...” Dorian began, despite knowing that it was a foolish question to ask a lover, “...Fen, how many men have you been with?”

Fenris’ mouth twitched. Dorian assumed that reaction meant that no answer would be forthcoming, but then Fenris’ eyes skittered across the ceiling, clearly calculating. After a moment, he turned back to Dorian. “I don’t know.”

Dorian didn’t quite manage to keep the surprise out of his voice. “You don’t know?”

“I lost track...” Fenris said flatly, “...in Tevinter.”

_In Tevinter..._ Dorian realized that meant while he was still a slave. “Then your master...” he began, but abruptly stopped. He didn’t want to finish that thought.

Fenris sat up, then moved so that he was sitting at the edge of the bed, and roughly ran a hand through his hair. “Danarius liked to share me,” Fenris said, his expression dark. Then, with a grimace: “He liked to watch.”

Dorian spent a quiet moment absorbing that information, and trying not to speculate. Still, he knew he should say something. He spoke quietly. “That’s terrible.”

Fenris suddenly pushed up from the bed. Took two steps. Stopped, then reached for the laces on his pants. His hands were shaking so much that it took him a effort to tie them. He then turned to Dorian with a sneer. “Terrible? You say that as if _you_ had never bedded one of your family’s slaves.”

Fenris’ words were an accusation, dripping hatred. Dorian’s pride prickled, but he replied calmly. “Believe whatever you wish, but I assure you that the only elf that I’ve had in my bed is you.”

Fenris scrutinized him, seeking falsehood. Dorian’s gaze was level, and burned with that silent ferocity Fenris had seen before at the Winter Palace. He’d clearly offended the mage. Still, Fenris was convinced that Dorian was telling the truth.

He didn’t apologize, but he sat down on the edge of the bed next to Dorian, running his hand through his hair again, trying to still the trembling in his hands.

Dorian exhaled slowly, letting some of his tension slip away. Fenris, however – he hadn’t seen the elf this agitated since Adamant.

Dorian leaned forward, trying to catch Fenris’ eye, and spoke in a soothing tone. “After that experience, I’m surprised that you let anyone touch you again.”

Fenris lifted his gaze, his expression intense. “I did not,” he said. “Not for six years. Not until Hawke –”

Fenris stopped himself from finishing that phrase, but in his memory he was back in Kirkwall, in Hawke’s bedroom, drowning in a sea of kisses, as Hawke tried to touch him without touching his scars – which was impossible.

A pained sigh escaped him as he stared down blankly at the carpet.

“Well!” Dorian said lightly. “A slave cannot give consent, so, really, whatever happened in Tevinter doesn’t count.”

Fenris considered that. “You have a point.”

“And, I think we shouldn’t count any Inquisition soldiers or racist, Orlesian nancy boys you may have... serviced.”

Fenris frowned at him in consternation.

Dorian smiled softly. “So, using the new criteria, the number of men you’ve had, let us say, actual, consensual, reciprocal sex with is probably a lot smaller now.”

Fenris shifted, crossing his arms so tightly that his fists were firmly jammed in his armpits. “Does it even matter?”

There wasn’t even the slightest hesitation before Dorian’s answer. “Not really.”

“Then why do you want to know?”

“Just curious.”

Fenris eyes him skeptically. “Counting you?”

Dorian’s soft smile reappeared. “I do seem to fit the criteria.”

Fenris bit his lip, then said, “Just... two.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow. _That_ was not the answer that he’d been expecting. For some reason, he hadn’t imagined that Fenris would have been faithful to Hawke. Nor that Dorian could possibly be only the second man that Fenris had willingly chosen to go to bed with...

Fenris made a noise of disgust. “You realize that doesn’t make you special,” he huffed. “It only means that I don’t dislike having sex with you.”

The closest thing to a compliment that Dorian was probably going to get from the elf. “Understood,” he said gravely. Then he smiled. “Well!” he chirped. “This has been delightful. We should have conversations more often.”

 


	12. Fatis Bellus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected reunion in the Arbor Wilds.

The pursuit of Corypheus brought the Inquisition to the Arbor Wilds.

Morale was high among the troops as they gathered at their base camp before the battle. Where the Inquisitor gave a rousing speech, then proceeded to snap orders at Cullen, Iron Bull, Krem, and anyone else unfortunate enough to fall into her path.

Fenris tried to stay out of the Inquisitor’s line of sight. Unfortunately, his moment of peace quickly came to an end when he heard a familiar shout behind him. “Hey! _Fatis bellus!_ ”

Fenris cringed. It meant “pretty elf boy.” It was the only phrase in Tevene _that woman_ knew and, because he was certain that Krem would never have betrayed him in such a manner, there was only one person who could have taught it to her.

Turning, he saw Trevelyan, one hand on her hip, the other on the pommel of her sword, with the mage Morrigan at her side. “Inquisitor?”

“Go find Leliana and bring her here to me. Now.”

Fenris slunk off to obey. He had to search nearly the entire camp, but he eventually returned with the Inquisition’s spymaster.

Upon seeing them, the women broke off what appeared to be a heated argument. The Inquisitor gestured them forward. “Leliana, tell Morrigan what you told me.”

Leliana dipped her head at the order. “I assume you mean about what my spies have reported. There have been some skirmishes along the path to the Temple, but the fighting so far has been limited to only a small contingent of advance troops. Given their movement rate, the main body of Corypheus’ forces should arrive tomorrow.”

“Which is more reason to head to the Temple _now,”_ Morrigan insisted. “We go in, we get the Eluvian, and we leave. _Before_ the army arrives.”

“It would be too dangerous,” Leliana said. “Until the rest of our men arrive, there is no way to cut a clear path.”

The Inquisitor smirked. “See, witch? We’d be walking into a death trap. And, I said we’re heading in tomorrow, as soon as Cullen’s men get here. So this conversation is over.”

Morrigan opened her mouth, about to speak, but was interrupted by the appearance of Iron Bull.

“Hey, boss,” the Qunari said. “I checked the Chargers’ inventory. We have three casks of rum left over from a certain encounter with some Antivan pirates.”

The Inquisitor became thoughtful. “Good. We might as well open them tonight, because we can’t drink them if we’re dead tomorrow. But if we live, talk to Josephine about reimbursement when we get back to Skyhold.”

“Sure thing, boss,” Bull agreed. “Oh and, by the way – Krem said he found the perfect isolated spot to pitch a tent. As well as those... items... you asked for.”

Leliana gave the Inquisitor a curious look. “You’re going to pitch your tent away from the camp? Is that wise?”

The Inquisitor just smiled. “If we’re going to die tomorrow, then there’s something else I need to do tonight,” she said. Then, to Iron Bull, she snapped an order. “Show me.”

Fenris, Morrigan and Leliana watched as Iron Bull and the Inquisitor walked away.

The women exchanged a glance.

“Have patience, Morrigan,” Leliana said.

“Easy enough for you to say, now that you’ve removed yourself from the thick of battle.”

Leliana smiled. “I do prefer to be behind the scenes, pulling all the strings.”

Fenris was about to excuse himself and slip away when a voice sang over them. “Well, well. If it isn’t the lovely Morrigan and equally lovely Leliana.”

The owner of the voice was an elf with light blond hair to his shoulders, dressed in leathers, and armed with some dangerous-looking long daggers strapped to his back. Across the left side of his face was a slightly faded Dalish tattoo.

“Zevran!” Leliana said. “I was wondering if you were ever going to accept my offer.”

“The price was quite fair,” Zevran said. “As you see, I am here, ready to fight for your beloved Inquisition.”

Morrigan eyed him as if he were something distasteful she’d found on the bottom of her shoe. “And what price would be fair to make you go on your way again? Because I’d be most willing to pay it.”

Zevran placed a hand to his chest. “Morrigan. You wound me! Don’t tell me that you haven’t missed me in all this time, just a little?”

“I’ve missed cases of food poisoning more.”

“Still feisty, I see,” he said. “And just as beautiful.”

“If you flatter me again, elf, I will turn you into a toad.”

Zevran raised his hands. “There is no need for that, certainly.” His gaze shifted, now falling on Fenris. “So. Who is this most intriguing-looking friend of yours?”

Fenris’ eyes narrowed. He’d recognized this elf immediately. Years ago, Hawke had made an agreement with some Antivans to track down a dangerous assassin who was hiding among the Dalish outside of Kirkwall. Instead of turning him over, Hawke had let him go. Which would have been fine, except that Fenris had needed to step in when the assassin had offered to get to “know” Hawke a little better.

Fenris’ response was pure frost. “We’ve met.”

Zevran cocked his head, studying Fenris. Then recognition dawned. “Ah, yes! The Champion of Kirkwall’s lover boy! How could I have forgotten? Are you still in contact with Isabela?”

Fenris didn’t want to be reminded of Kirkwall. Of his past life. Of Hawke. _Hawke..._ “No.”

“Ah, that is a shame,” Zevran said. “Isabela... such an extraordinary woman. It would have been wonderful to have some news of her.” Smiling, he turned back to the women. “Rumor has it that drinks tonight will be on the Inquisition. Perhaps we can catch up later?” His eyes flicked briefly over Fenris. “And do bring your intriguing friend with you.”


	13. An Assassin in the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zevran is an expert in the art of flirtation.

The sun set. Tents had been pitched, and the Inquisition’s forces gathered in circles around the numerous fires, drinking the Chargers’ rum.

Dorian had passed much of the evening at the Inquisitor’s side. At some point during their rounds, they had finally settled down around one of the fires, listening to the tales told by Morrigan, Lelianan and Zevran – all of whom had fought the Blight at the Hero of Fereldan’s side. Finally, the hour grew late, and the only ones remaining, still drinking around their fire, were Dorian, Fenris, Zevran, and the Inquisitor.

Dorian had thought himself a shameless flirt, but compared to Zevran, he was practically subtle in that art. A point which was brought home when Zevran turned to Fenris with a coy smile, and murmured seductively, “So, are you going to invite me to your tent?” When Fenris didn’t immediately reply, Zevran’s light brown eyes slid over to Evelyn. “Perhaps the Inquisitor would care to join us?”

The Inquisitor looked first at Zevran, then at Fenris.  _Two pretty boy elves,_ she thought as she considered them for a moment.  _Yeah, that’s fucking hot._

“Tempting,” the Inquisitor said. “But I already have a date with that man over there.”

Zevran followed her indicating finger to Cullen, sitting at another fire with some of the soldiers. Zevran recognized him as the Templar the Hero had rescued at the Circle of Magi. At the time, the Templar, tormented by demons, had been bat-shit crazy, but now he seemed a new man. “Ah, I see,” he said. “Well, I am rather envious, but if anyone deserves the love of a good woman, it would be him. Not to mention that he is rather handsome in a strapping, Templar kind of way. And, may I presume that, being a Templar, he is quite accustomed to taking orders?”

The Inquisitor grinned into her cup. Drained it, then set it down by the fire. Rising, she stopped to place her hand on Dorian’s shoulder. “Best if you keep an eye on your boyfriend before he gets himself into trouble,” she warned with a poignant glance at Fenris before she staggered away.

_Kaffas!_

Zevran’s eyes slid from Fenris over to Dorian. The tension was palpable. “Forgive me,” he said to Dorian. “I didn’t realize I had trespassed.”

Dorian tightened his grip on his cup. “Not at all,” he said lightly. “No one owns Fenris.”

The look Fenris gave him was indecipherable and strange.

Zevran’s gaze slipped from one to the other, before settling back on Fenris. “In that case... perhaps I could join the two of you?”

 _No one owns Fenris, he says_. _Is that what he truly believes?_ At the Winter Palace, the mage hadn’t said so, but he’d made it implicit that he didn’t want to share Fenris with other men. But, dangling right before him, in the slim, sexy package of an assassin, was the opportunity for Dorian to prove himself true or false.

Fenris tossed a lock of hair out of his eyes. “I am willing if he is.”

Both elves turned expectantly to Dorian. In its way, it was, as the Inquisitor had said, _tempting_. He’d never been with two men at the same time before, though he’d always wanted to try it. He just wasn’t certain that he wanted his first threesome to be with Fenris.

As he debated, the words of the Inquisitor echoed through his head: _The world is probably going to end soon, so nothing we say or do really matters._

“All right,” Dorian said, noting the flicker of surprise on his lover’s face. “Though, of course, only on Fenris’ condition.”

Zevra glanced curiously at the other elf.

“No kissing,” Fenris said.

#

Dorian was on the verge of dozing off, but a rustling in the tent brought him back to wakefulness. Leaning up, he saw Zevran, fully dressed, at the entrance. A quick glance down revealed Fenris at his side, under the blanket, asleep.

Dorian sat up, and murmured teasingly, “Slipping away like an assassin in the night?”

Zevran startled at his voice, then, turning, laughed softly. “Obviously I am not a very good assassin, seeing that you have caught me.” He smiled. “However, since you are awake, and so delicious, there is one more thing I’d like to do before I go...”

Dorian watched as the assassin approached, then leaned down, curving a hand around the nape of Dorian’s neck, and pulled the mage in for a kiss.

There was nothing coy or innocent about the way Zevran’s mouth pressed against his. Nor was it a hungry promise of things to come. Dorian felt how Zevran put all of himself into the kiss, holding nothing back. It was deep, drenched in passion, an intimate and languid farewell. When Zevran finally released him, Dorian was breathless.

Zevran withdrew slightly. “Forgive me for not completely following your lover’s condition, but I know I would have regretted not kissing you at least once.”

It had been a long time since a man had kissed him. And even longer since he’d been kissed like _that._ Dorian smiled softly. “Thank you.”

Zevran returned the smile. Then he rose again. At the tent flap he paused, turning to give Dorian a conspiratorial wink before he slipped away.


	14. A Different Kind of Wager

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Fenris disappears, Dorian assumes that it means that their relationship is over.

After their return from the Arbor Wilds, Fenris stopped coming to Dorian’s room.

Dorian didn’t think much of it on the first night, nor the second. Fenris usually didn’t stay away for more than two nights in a row, so Dorian expected him on the third night, and was somewhat disappointed when he didn’t appear.

On the fourth night, he fretted. He also considered going out to track Fenris down, but, as part of the agreement they’d made at the Winter Palace, it was at Fenris’ discretion to instigate sex. Dorian was free to accept or refuse, of course, but he was not allowed to seek Fenris out. Dorian understood this as an extension of the ex-slave’s need to be in control.

He stayed in his room, sipping a glass of wine while attempting to read. Except his mind continued to wander back to the night they’d spent with Zevran in the Arbor Wilds. Dorian was moderately certain that allowing the assassin into their bed had been a test, and that, he, Dorian, had passed it. Making a claim of possession on Fenris was most likely the worst thing he could do. Dorian had no illusions about the nature of their relationship. Or, rather, he’d been quite certain he hadn’t, at least until he’d felt a sick stab of jealousy while watching Zevran pleasure Fenris.

 _Maker’s hairy arse,_ having any sort of feelings for Fenris was the last thing he needed.

On the fifth night, Dorian was half-resigned to the idea that he’d be sleeping alone again, and half-indignant that the elf had, evidently, decided to end the relationship without an explanation, a word, or even a note telling Dorian to go fuck his own mother.

On the sixth day, the Inquisitor found him in his usual niche in the library. She wanted to talk about the Inquisition. Now that they’d defeated Samson, Corypheus’ second-in-command, in the Arbor Wilds, she had all her advisers at work: Cullen regathering their forces, Lelian’s spies scouting for Corypheus’ location, and Josephine planning the lavish victory party for when they finally crushed the darkspawn magister under the Inquisition’s boot.

“And his dragon, as well, I presume,” Dorian said.

“That goes without saying,” Evelyn said. Then she flashed her cocky grin. “Speaking of which... Iron Bull, Cassandra and I are going dragon-hunting tomorrow. You want to join us?”

“No,” Dorian quipped, “I think I’ll pass on having my hair set on fire right before being swallowed whole.”

The Inquisitor, nonplussed, crossed her arms as she leaned back against a bookshelf. “Suit yourself.” Then she cocked her head. “So. Things between you and Fenris are all right?”

“Not at all,” Dorian said. “He’s disappeared. I haven’t even seen him in six days.”

The Inquisitor stared at him. Then she sniggered.

“Eve,” Dorian muttered, cross. “I don’t see what’s amusing.”

“I just assumed you knew. Anyway, Varric and Fenris came to me to ask permission to go to Val Royeaux. Said they had someone they needed to meet.” She grinned wryly. “That was four days ago.”

That night, Dorian finally saw Fenris in the Herald’s Rest, sitting with Varric and a woman with long dark hair whom Dorian didn’t recognize. What he _did_ recognize was the nature of the staff that leaned against the back of her chair. While he puzzled over why Fenris would be keeping company with a mage in public, Varric noticed him. The dwarf then said something to Fenris. Fenris glanced at Dorian before responding, then Varric raised a hand to gesture Dorian over.

Dorian picked his way among the tables until he reached theirs.

Varric made the introductions. “Bethany, this is Dorian, mage, of House Pavus of Tevinter. Dorian, this is Bethany Hawke. Garrett Hawke’s sister.”

Dorian recovered from his surprise quickly. “A pleasure,” he said, and kissed the hand she had offered in jest.

Her dark eyes sparkled with glee. “Please join us. I’ve never had the chance to speak with a mage from Tevinter before, and I’ve already heard so much about you.”

Dorian sat. He couldn’t imagine Fenris waxing poetic about him. “I assume that Varric talked your ear off.”

“Oh, Varric told me some wonderful stories about you,” she said. “But what Fenris said was far more... revealing.”

Fenris frowned. “Bethany...” he growled, but there was no real venom in it.

The smile Bethany flashed him was warm and genuine. “It wouldn’t kill you to say something nice about a mage, just once, would it?”

Varric chuckled. “Broody say something nice about a mage? It would probably mean the world was going to end.”

On the seventh night, Fenris came to Dorian’s room. Peeled Dorian out of his clothes. Teased him with fingers and tongue. Pushed him down on the bed and began that torturous and intoxicating slow slide of his.

Fenris never spoke during sex. Endearments would have been unlike him, and he didn’t engage in playful, dirty talk. Except this time, as he throbbed his release, a whisper of a word in Tevene escaped him. So softly spoken that Dorian almost didn’t catch it.

_Mine._

After, they lay on the bed, not touching. _That word..._ Dorian wondered what it meant. Or if it meant nothing. Or if Fenris was even aware that he’d spoken it during the heat of the moment.

Fenris shifted, scratching lazily at his hair. “Bethany likes you.”

Dorian felt a spark of surprise. Although he and Fenris did converse on occasion – usually small talk about the Inquisition – this was the first time that Fenris had initiated a conversation. He realized, too, that he had yet to find out what, exactly, Fenris had said about him to her.

Dorian smiled. “Of course she does. I’m very charming. And handsome, as well.”

Fenris snorted softly in disbelief. _This man... the things he says..._ “She wants to help defeat Corypheus.”

“Ah. Well, she may have her chance soon. The Inquisitor is quite determined to end this.” Dorian smiled as he thought of Evelyn’s recent boast about how she was going to shove her sword down Corypheus’ throat. Either before or after she shoved it up his bony darkspawn ass. “You know, I’d wager that the Inquisitor will be the one to deal the killing blow to Corypheus.”

Fenris sat up, contemplative as he looked down at Dorian with sharply lucid eyes. Which surprised Dorian. He had still smelled wine on Fenris’ breath, but, in truth, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Fenris this sober. “If I had money, I’d bet on Iron Bull.”

 _Interesting..._ The Qunari was immensely skilled with a sword, so it wasn’t a bad choice. Still, Dorian was convinced that there was no way that Evelyn Trevelyan would let anyone steal her glory. “Then I propose we make a different kind of wager. If I win, you will let me kiss you. As much as I please.”

Fenris frowned slightly, but said nothing.

“And if you win...” Dorian paused, trying to come up with a suitable prize, but floundering.

Fenris had been worrying his bottom lip with his teeth, clearly debating. “If I win, you will stop using magic.”

An outrageous suggestion if Dorian had ever heard one. Still... “For how long?”

“A year.”

Beyond outrageous, it was preposterous. Dorian lifted a hand, tapping his fingers lightly against his lips as he considered the consequences of losing this wager. Obviously, if they defeated Corypheus, he wouldn’t need his spells for battle anymore. And it _was_ possible that the Inquisitor could give him a nice, quiet, magic-free job as a rebel archivist.

Still, he was confident that the Inquisitor would prevail. There was only a very slim chance he could lose. “All right.”

Fenris tilted his head, staring at Dorian with surprise, and seeking falsehood. “You would actually agree to this?”

“I believe I just did.”

Fenris stared at him for another moment. Then: “And if neither the Inquisitor nor Iron Bull strikes the killing blow?”

“Then it doesn’t matter, as we’ll most likely all be dead.”

“Hmm,” Fenris said, considering these words. “True.”


	15. A Tevinter Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Corypheus is dead, and the Inquisitor throws a party.

The Inquisition was victorious.

Corypheus was dead.

And, true to her word, the Inquisitor threw a party.

It had all happened so quickly that Dorian’s head was still spinning. Corypheus had struck first, forcing the Inquisitor’s hand. There had been no time to recall Leliana’s spies, nor to wait for Cullen’s forces. With only her inner circle and a handful of soldiers, the Inquisitor had raced to the Temple of Sacred Ashes for the final showdown.

During the gruesome battle, Dorian and the other mages had drained all their mana casting spell after spell, while the warriors’ swords flashed across the night sky, and Fenris darted about, a deadly lyrium ghost.

Now, the Great Hall of Skyhold was crammed with people, circulating among the banquet tables, while wine and ale flowed freely. Varric had disappeared into the crowd to look for Bethany, so now Dorian and Fenris stood alone in one corner, sipping from goblets of wine, waiting, not talking.

Every now and then, Dorian would steal a glance at Fenris. He wore a long, black coat with a high collar edged in white over a simple, pale gray shirt; form-fitting black pants; and – despite his penchant for going barefoot – tall, black boots polished to a high sheen. Dorian had never seen this outfit before, but it did seem to fulfill the Inquisitor’s order that all attendees wear their best clothes. He’d even swept his hair back behind his ears, one of which was now lined with silver cuffs. In other words, he was strikingly handsome.

Dorian had opted to dress in traditional Tevinter formal wear, which meant that his garments were as dark – but far more elaborate – as Fenris’.

As they waited, the Inquisitor, who had been making the rounds all evening, arrived in their corner. She teetered a bit as her eyes darted between the two of them. “You’re wearing a lot of black,” she said gruffly. “Is that a Tevinter thing?”

“Actually, it is,” Dorian replied. “It’s considered the only appropriate color to wear to a formal affair.” He paused, considering her mood, which seemed a bit dour for the occasion. “Eve, dear. You’ve just saved the world from its imminent destruction. Shouldn’t you be happier?”

She snorted. “I can’t find Cullen. It seems that he’s decided to renege on our bet.”

“A bet?”

“Did you think I didn’t know about all the betting going on at Skyhold about who was going to be the one to finally kill Corypheus?” she asked. “So Cullen and I made our own wager. If he lost – which he did – then he would have to attend the party at my side...” She flashed a wolfish grin “...wearing a dress.”

Briefly, Dorian tried to imagine the Commander in women’s clothing. Perhaps something following Orlesian fashion? Perhaps a ballgown in red? With his coloring, red _did_ suit him...Then: “Wait. Then, _who_ did Cullen bet on?”

“Fenris.”

Fenris’ eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Me?”

“He said something about having seen you in battle before. And that you’d already killed Corypheus once, so... yes. You.”

“Then I am flattered.”

“Also, there’s still no trace of Solas,” she revealed. “Even Leliana’s spies can’t find him. He was with the Inquisition from the very _beginning,_ and then he just runs off at the end of the fight. I mean... who does that?”

Diplomatically, Dorian said, “He must have had his reasons.”

The Inquisitor shot him a dark look. “Yeah. The reason is that he’s an asshole,” she spat.

Neither Dorian nor Fenris argued with that.

The Inquisitor heaved a sigh. “At least I always knew where I stood with him,” she said. “All night long, everyone’s been calling me ‘Your Worship’ again, and blowing smoke up my ass. I’ve had about enough of this sycophantic shit. It would be refreshing to hear someone say something honest.”

Fenris cocked his head, considering her. “You know, the battle would have ended much quicker, if you’d allowed your swordsmen to flank the magister in a carefully calculated attack, instead of you rushing in headlong like a damn fool.”

Dorian blinked. _Maker, please tell me that elf didn’t just call the Inquisitor a damn fool. To her face._

The Inquisitor just stared at Fenris for a moment. In the next, she had thrown her arms around his shoulders in a heartfelt embrace.

Fenris stiffened in surprise.

The Inquisitor turned so that her lips nearly brushed his ear. “Fenris, I love you,” she murmured. “If you even _think_ about leaving the Inquisition, I’ll kill you.”

The Inquisitor released him just as suddenly, and then the men watched her stagger off into the crowd.

“Umm...” Dorian began, uncharacteristically at a lack for words. “I... I think she was rather... drunk.”

Fenris managed to wipe the look of shock off his face. He cleared his throat by coughing into his fist. “Yes. Apparently so.”

Dorian took a sip of wine, then turned towards Fenris. “Speaking of bets, I seem to recall that we had a wager,” he said. Then he smiled smugly. “Which I have won.”

Fenris’ eyes slid sidelong to meet the mage’s. “I don’t recall actually agreeing to it.”

“Actually, you said you’d put money on Iron Bull.”

“I said ‘if I had money.’ Which I did not.”

“However, the stakes of the bet were non-monetary, so your financial situation at the time is irrelevant. It’s still a wager.”

Fenris turned, his gaze cool and unyielding, his tone brusque. “I disagree with you.”

Chagrined, Dorian stared at him, trying to determine if the elf were truly serious, or if, perhaps that he was merely arguing just to tease him. Fenris wasn’t the type to tease. Then again, he wasn’t the type of man to go back on his word. _Why, this elf..._

“You know,” Dorian said mildly, “you are exasperating and sexy and I hate you.”

Fenris’ eyebrow twitched. Then – something that Dorian had never expected to see – Fenris smiled at him.

At that moment, the voices in the crowd swelled, then hushed, with a smattering of nervous titters. Dorian and Fenris both turned their heads towards the source of the noise, which was the main entrance of the Great Hall.

The Commander of the Inquisition’s forces had just arrived.

Wearing a dress.


	16. Kissing Dorian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris has to decide whether or not he will renege on his bet with Dorian.

When Dorian left the party, Fenris followed him back to his room.

The last time Fenris had been here, the end of the world had still seemed imminent. Now, the battle was over, they were dressed in their finery, and Dorian was now hungrily circling him as his clever fingers unstrapped, unbuttoned and unbuckled the many fastenings of his outer garment. Once done, he shrugged off the overcoat and tossed it over his one and only chair. Beneath it, he wore a simple white shirt, which – for Fenris – was better than the Tevinter formal attire. Too many bad memories.

In this light, as the mage stepped up to him, Dorian’s hazel eyes were sword-blade gray.

He smiled gently. “We’ll do this my way, shall we?”

Fenris knew what he meant. He was asking permission, which meant that Fenris could still renege on their bet. Or he could man up and pay his debt. For some reason he didn’t doubt that Dorian really would have given up magic for a year if Fenris had won. With a brief nod, Fenris gave his consent.

Dorian closed the gap between them. Lifted his hands to Fenris’ face, palms along his jawline, fingers at the hairline just behind his ears. Regarded him for a moment before leaning down.

Fenris felt the brush of Dorian’s mustache, and the soft, yet insistent pressure of his lips. Habit caused him to close his eyes, as something instinctive drove him to return the kiss. As Dorian moved his mouth over Fenris’ in a series of soft, tentative kisses, Fenris’ hands, at his sides, curled to clutch at the empty air.

 _No. Not like this._ Only Hawke had ever kissed him with such sweet tenderness. It was intolerable.

Fenris seized Dorian by the waist, pulling him close.

Fenris ravished him with long, lavish kisses now, seeking and demanding, so hungry they were almost brutal. As Fenris plunged his tongue into Dorian’s mouth, Dorian made a small noise of pleasure deep in his throat, and wove his hands into Fenris’ hair.

As their tongues danced, Dorian’s hands slipped down to Fenris’ shoulders. With a push, Fenris’ jacket spilled to the floor. Still kissing, and discarding clothing along the way, Dorian steered Fenris across the room.

Fenris stopped when he felt the edge of the bed against the back of his legs. Drawing back, Dorian smiled at him, then guided Fenris down to the bed.

Dorian hovered above him. He knew that Fenris couldn’t stand the feel of another man’s weight on him. Leaning down, Dorian drank once more from his lips before moving to to the elf’s throat.

Fenris closed his eyes as Dorian proceeded down his body, his tongue, this time, licking between the scars. Fenris had always wondered if what remained of his unscathed skin had become more sensitive after the ritual, because just the feel of the mage’s hot tongue on him was enough to stiffen his prick.

Fenris grunted softly as Dorian caught Fenris’ nipple between his teeth, then proceeded to lick, then suck each one deliciously until Fenris’ breathing had quickened, and he writhed, back arching beneath Dorian.

When Dorian arrived between Fenris’ thighs and began to languidly suck him, Fenris twisted his fingers into Dorian’s hair, and softly groaned.

 _Not the hair, amatus_ , is what Dorian wanted to say, except he really couldn’t speak with a mouth full of elf. And he didn’t want to stop, especially now that Fenris was making soft, breathy noises in response to Dorian’s attentions.

Redoubling his efforts, Dorian continued to pleasure Fenris as his hands roamed over the elf’s body, listening carefully to the subtle changes in the sounds he was making. Below his hands, Fenris’ thighs quivered.

Then he felt Fenris’ fingers under his jaw, gently coaxing him up. Letting his mouth slip off, Dorian looked up at him curiously. “Fen?”

Hazy but hungry green eyes burned into him. “Do you want me to fuck you?”

He didn’t have to ask twice. Dorian climbed up over him, lowering his head, and poured all of his need and desire into his kiss.

Fenris could feel the passion in Dorian’s kiss – fiery, dangerous, determined. _He's such a good kisser. Easily as good as Hawke._ Fenris felt himself getting lost in Dorian as the boundaries he’d set around himself began to waver and dissolve.

 _Too dangerous._ The only logical thing to do was to take control of the situation and fuck the mage back into submission. He broke off the kiss, rolled Dorian beneath him, and reached for the oil.

Thus, Dorian found himself on his back, as Fenris lifted his legs, then teased him open with patient fingers before taking him.

Nearly three months had passed since the battle at Adamant. Two months and three weeks since Fenris had first followed him to his room. And two months since Fenris had agreed to be his lover.

Which was about two months longer than he’d expected it to last.

However, by now they were familiar with each other, and there was a preciseness in the way their bodies moved together. And, to Fenris’ credit, despite any personal feelings, the elf had always – and inexplicably – put Dorian’s sexual gratification before his own. Only recently – though Dorian hated himself for the thought – had it occurred to him that Fenris’ deep-seated desire to please was just another mark of his years spent in slavery.

Steady as ever, Fenris continued to glide smoothly in and out of Dorian’s body as he adjusted his grip on Dorian’s knees. Leaning down, he made a small adjustment to the angle of his hips, and was rewarded with Dorian’s sudden gasp.

 _Maker, the wonderful things he does_ , Dorian thought as Fenris, with the militant precision of a Templar, hit that spot inside him with every single thrust, shuddering his bones and sending surge after surge of pleasure quaking through him. That, coupled with the feel of his own cock rubbing against Fenris’ abdomen as the elf moved over him, was too much for Dorian to resist.

He was on the brink of an orgasm. And Fenris was so beautiful, right there above him. Leaning up on one hand, Dorian captured Fenris with the other, reeling the elf in for another kiss.

Fenris’ rhythm remained unchanged, even with the additional distraction of kissing Dorian. As the mage parted his lips, Fenris thrust his tongue inside Dorian’s mouth.

The mage made a muffled cry.

Fenris no longer had to ask when Dorian was about to come. He could always recognize when the mage was close, and at that point, he would let go.

As Fenris thumped into him, fast and furious, Dorian threw his head back, emitting a sharp _Ah! w_ ith each spasm that rocked his body. Floating in a mindless bliss, he was barely aware of the heartbeat-like pulse of Fenris’ cock inside him as Fenris came a moment later.

Another moment passed as Fenris caught his breath. Carefully he withdrew, then threw himself down on the bed next to Dorian.

 _Melted again._ It took Dorian a while to float back to reality. He realized that he’d spilled his seed all over himself. As he wiped it away with the edge of the sheet, it occurred to him that he’d come magnificently, even though at no point this evening had Fenris touched his prick.

Dorian wondered how the elf had managed to do that. It wasn’t an easy feat. Then he decided he didn’t care, as long as Fenris would do it again.

_Fenris. Beautiful, sexy, exasperating lunatic of an elf._

Rolling over on his side, Dorian impulsively snaked one arm under Fenris’ neck. When Fenris started to pull away, Dorian spoke softly. “Please. Stay.”

Fenris hesitated, staring at Dorian. Then, clearly vexed, he heaved a sigh. “Just this once,” he relented, then lay back down again, settling his head on Dorian’s shoulder, and draped one arm across the mage’s chest.

Savoring the moment, Dorian contemplated the elf in his arms. _Just this once_ was enough for the present. Dorian Pavus didn’t know what the future would hold, but the world still existed, so whatever they said or did from now on would matter. 


End file.
